


spin the world around (meet me on a rooftop)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s02e16 Afterlife, F/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23479060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Jemma's being followed.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Comments: 18
Kudos: 96





	spin the world around (meet me on a rooftop)

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da, week fourteen! And I'm extra proud of myself this week not because I love the fic (I don't), but because I had just zero motivation to write and yet I did it anyway. Go me!
> 
> I hope y'all are keeping well in the midst of all this badness. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! <3

The coffee shop is absurdly crowded for so late in the morning. After placing her order, Jemma escapes to the corner, where a woman with a yoga mat is examining the shop’s offering of travel mugs and bagged coffee.

“Popular place,” Jemma says as she steps up next to her.

“It is,” Candice Aldridge agrees, “and you’re a popular person. You know you’re being followed?”

“I do,” she says. She picks up a travel mug that says KOFFEE KWEEN in pink sparkly letters, morbidly fascinated. “Is it just the three?”

“Far as I can tell.” Aldridge reaches past her to grab a bag of Costa Rica blend. “Want me to take care of them?”

To the casual observer, the offer might be comical. With her messy blonde ponytail, skintight leggings, and overlarge tank top that fails to even slightly hide her bright pink sports bra, Aldridge looks more like a college student who just rolled out of bed than a hardened specialist. Looking at her, one would never guess she might be dangerous.

Jemma, of course, is far more informed than the casual observer. She’s well aware what Aldridge is capable of.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

“My pleasure, doc,” Aldridge grins, even as the poor overwhelmed girl at the counter calls Jemma’s name. (Well, she says _Jenna_ , but close enough.) “Enjoy your coffee.”

“You, too,” Jemma says, amused despite herself at the way the Costa Rica blend has disappeared. “And thank you.”

Aldridge drops a wink. “You know I’m always happy to comply.”

Rolling her eyes, Jemma retrieves her drink and then pushes through the press of bodies to the door. She ignores the shouting that picks up behind her as she goes.

Ben Markham drops into step with her half a block later. “Ma’am.”

“Good morning, Ben,” she says, and then sighs in relief as she spots a public trash bin. “Finally.”

Markham nods approvingly as she discards her untouched coffee. “Couldn’t keep an eye on the barista?”

“No,” she says, “more’s the pity. I could’ve used the caffeine.” She eyes him, taking in his casual, unhurried stroll and the loose set of his shoulders. He’s not at all concerned to be escorting her down a crowded city street, which suggests… “Is this the part where I get ushered into an unmarked car and disappeared?”

“This way, please,” he says in agreement, motioning to the upcoming alley.

An unremarkable town car with fully tinted windows is waiting in the alley, Luis Ortilla at the wheel.

“Morning, doc!” he greets brightly as she slides into the backseat. “You good?”

“I’ve been better,” she says. “But I appreciate the ride. Thank you, Luis.”

Ortilla grins. “Happy to comply!”

“Candice already made that joke,” she informs him.

He shrugs, unconcerned. “It’s always funny.”

Jemma could certainly contest that, but she lets it go. “Speaking of brainwashing, poor Agent 33 disappeared after Whitehall’s death. Did you lot pick her up?”

“We did,” Markham confirms. He’s tapping at his phone even as he settles into the passenger seat, no doubt reporting his successful retrieval of Jemma. “She’s recovering.”

“Still not a great conversationalist,” Ortilla observes as he pulls out of the alley, “but she kicks serious ass. Put Hicks on the mat in like three seconds—it was beautiful.”

That’s something, at least—certainly better than the poor woman being dead in a ditch somewhere in San Juan. Jemma makes a mental note to check in on her recovery and then peers out the window.

“Where are we going, precisely?”

“Fifth Street,” Markham says. “We’ve got a quinjet on the roof of a parking garage.”

Ah. “Need I ask who’s flying it?”

“Probably not,” Ortilla says cheerfully. “We’re gonna wait downstairs, if you don’t mind.”

Jemma rolls her eyes and thinks Markham is probably doing the same.

“We need to pick up Aldridge,” he corrects. “Once you’re safely aboard the quinjet, we’ll double back for her.”

“And then we’re catching another quinjet,” Ortilla says leadingly.

“There’s only one quinjet, Ortilla,” Markham tells him.

Ortilla considers that for a moment. “We could drive home.”

“No,” Markham says, “we couldn’t.”

“Awwww, come on—”

“No,” Markham repeats firmly.

The argument—if Ortilla whining and Markham repeatedly shutting him down can be deemed such—continues all the way to the parking garage. It’s a welcome distraction after Jemma’s extremely long night, which she suspects is why Markham allows it to continue rather than asserting his authority to silence Ortilla. It’s quite sweet of him, actually—she can tell he’s beginning to become genuinely irritated by the time they arrive.

“But if we could just—oh, here we go,” Ortilla says, interrupting himself. “This is your stop, doc.”

He pulls into the garage and drives through the rows until they reach the lifts.

“We blocked off the ramp to the roof,” he says in explanation, “so you’ll need to take the elevator. I’ll wait with the car.”

The last is said quickly to Markham, and Jemma has to laugh.

“Precisely what do you think is going to happen up there?” she asks.

“No idea,” he says, “but I know I don’t wanna see it.”

Markham is almost definitely rolling his eyes as he gets out of the car, but his face has settled into its usual serious lines by the time he opens her door for her.

“Ma’am?” he prompts.

“Thank you again for the ride, Luis,” Jemma says, and slides out of the car. “And thank you, Ben.”

“Our pleasure, ma’am,” he says.

They take the lift in silence, and for all his dismissive attitude towards Ortilla’s fears, he doesn’t follow her out when they reach the roof. Of course, the quinjet is quite close, so perhaps he just trusts that she can make it three feet unaccompanied.

Or perhaps he sees that Grant is leaning against the bulkhead.

Whatever his reasons, he remains in the lift, and when the doors close with a quiet ding, Jemma and Grant are left alone on the roof.

“Gotta say,” he says, pushing off the bulkhead, “that was kind of a let-down.”

“Was it?” she asks dryly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I always imagined rescuing you would take more than Aldridge crossing off three measly meatheads.”

“Disappointed you didn’t get to ride in on a white horse?” she asks.

“Honestly? Yeah.”

“Well, don’t be,” she says, brushing past him on her way up the ramp. “You may yet get your chance.”

For a moment, Grant is silent—and his silence has a distinctly dangerous flavor to it. “How’s that?”

“Those _measly meatheads_ , as you call them, weren’t Coulson’s.” She drops her bag on one of the jump seats, relieved to be free of the burden after hours on the run. “There’s been another uprising—a smaller, more pathetic one under the auspices of Robert Gonzales, of all people.”

“Gonzales?” he echoes skeptically. “No way that old fossil’s Hydra.”

“Indeed not,” she agrees, stripping out of her coat. “No, it’s nothing to do with Hydra. They call themselves the _real SHIELD_ —they believe Coulson is secretly building an alien army, or some such nonsense.”

“Okaaaaaay,” Grant says. “That’s…a stretch.”

“Quite,” she says. “In any case, I haven’t been accused of anything. Even Gonzales’ people didn’t actually suspect me—it was only as the ex-wife of a head of Hydra that I was deemed untrustworthy.”

He makes a face at the _ex_ , as always, but it melts into amusement by the end of her explanation.

“Guilt by association?” he asks, laughing. “That’s _it_?”

“That’s it,” she confirms—a bit smugly, she’s afraid.

“Damn,” he says, shaking his head, and hits the button to raise the quinjet’s ramp. “I don’t know how you do it, baby.”

“Well, it helps that I haven’t killed any SHIELD agents in the middle of a SHIELD base,” she says.

Grant rolls his eyes. “I was about to get made. Let it go already.”

“You got made anyway,” she feels compelled to point out, but refrains from pressing the matter any further. She’s far too busy being swept up in her husband’s arms. “Oh, I missed you.”

“Missed you too, baby,” Grant says, and proceeds to kiss her senseless.

Quite _literally_ senseless, in fact; when he sets her down again, she has to cling to his shirt to keep her feet, and it takes a moment to process that he’s spoken.

“Sorry,” she says breathlessly, “what was that?”

“I _said_ ,” he says, with quite a smug undertone, “why might I still get to do the white horse rescue?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “Well, you know Coulson. He was forced to go on the run when Gonzales stormed the Playground last night, but he’ll rally soon enough—and I intend to answer when he calls.”

The smug look drops right off of Grant’s face. His grip on her hips tightens almost to the point of pain.

“Jemma,” he says.

“Don’t _Jemma_ me,” she scolds, pushing out of his embrace. “I’m not done with SHIELD yet.”

He scoffs. “It’s been almost a _year_ , Jemma. We said—”

“I know what we said,” she interrupts, “but things have changed.”

“Yeah, you’ve been chased out of your base in the middle of the night,” he says. “Which means—”

“Which means _nothing_ ,” she says, and before he can argue further, hurries to add, “Skye’s a Gifted now.”

Grant pauses. “She’s what?”

“A Gifted,” she repeats. “She was exposed to an alien substance in an alien city, and her DNA was completely rewritten. As a result, she is now capable of causing earthquakes.”

“Okay.” He rocks back on his heels, absorbing that. “That’s…something.”

“It’s fascinating,” she corrects, and moves back in to wrap her arms around his waist. “You _know_ that I miss you and I want to come home, but I can’t leave SHIELD until I’ve figured this out.”

He frowns down at her. “Sure you can. All we’ve gotta do is grab Skye.”

“We’re not kidnapping Skye,” she says calmly. “I’m going back to SHIELD.”

“Jemma—”

“You know you can’t stop me,” she says.

“Can’t I?” he asks, and she can’t help a shiver at the low, dangerous register his voice has dropped into.

Attraction to her husband aside, however—“You’re not kidnapping _me_ , either.”

“No?” He runs his hands down her sides to grip her hips again, then yanks her up against him. “Watch me.”

His body is warm and solid and familiar against hers, everything she’s been missing since things went wrong at Cybertek. The firm press of him against her makes her ache with want—makes her think that maybe it _wouldn’t_ be so bad to give up the lie of loyalty to SHIELD and simply go home.

But she’s come too far to give up now. And really, she _must_ discover how Skye came to have powers.

“You’re not going to kidnap me,” she says, looping her arms around his neck, “because you love me and you want me to be happy.”

Grant closes his eyes. “Jem.”

“I know.” She toys with the hairs at the base of his neck, lightly scratching her nails against his nape, and grins at how he shudders. “You worry, and I love you for it. But right now, Coulson still trusts me. I _must_ get what I can while that lasts.”

He loosens his grip on her, punishing grasp sliding into a gentle hold around her waist. His fingers slip up under her shirt to rest against her back, familiar calluses catching against her bare skin. It’s her turn to shudder, and his to grin—but only briefly.

“You don’t think running to me is gonna make him suspicious?” he asks.

“Who ran?” she asks innocently. “ _I_ was kidnapped by my ex-husband’s thugs after being forced out into public by Gonzales’ wholly unfounded suspicion.”

He chuckles. “Of course you were.”

“Just a little longer, Grant,” she wheedles. “I’ll figure out what happened to Skye…and then perhaps I’ll discover how to replicate it.” She rests her chin on his chest and gives him her best alluring smile. “How would you like your own army of Gifteds?”

Apparently unmoved by the offer, Grant stares down at her, searching her face.

“Please?” she adds sweetly, and he sighs.

“I can’t talk you out of this,” he says. It’s not a question.

“No,” she agrees.

“All right.” He sighs again. “How exactly are you expecting to get back to Coulson?”

“Oh, that’s the best part,” she says happily. “Coulson’s backed into a corner and he’s going to need some help. Gonzales is _very_ suspicious of Skye—thinks she’s been replaced with an alien or something. I even heard him call her an _it_. And you know how Coulson feels about Skye. He’ll be driven to desperation to protect her.”

Grant makes a thoughtful noise. “And desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Exactly.” Jemma beams. “I expect he’ll be turning to you for help within the week. Reluctantly and with some measure of threat involved, I’m sure, but even so.”

“He loves Skye more than he hates Hydra,” he agrees, a bit distantly.

She watches him think it over—can all but see his beautiful mind turning the possibilities and weighing the potential outcomes. He may not have her scientific genius, but his mind for strategy is truly something to behold.

Once he realizes just how much of an advantage he can wring from this, he’ll agree. She’s certain of it.

And sure enough, eventually he sighs. “Fine. You win.”

“Thank you!” she says, bouncing up on her toes to kiss him swiftly. “You won’t regret it, love, I promise.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” he says wryly—and then he _moves_.

To her embarrassment, Jemma lets out quite a high-pitched squeak at finding herself suddenly pinned against the raised ramp. But her embarrassment fades quickly in the face of Grant’s focused attention.

“That means our time’s limited,” he murmurs as he kisses his way down her neck. One of his hands has found its way into her jeans. “We’ll have to make the most of it.”

“Ye—oh!” Jemma clutches at the back of his neck, struggling for breath. “Yes, I suppose we will.”

She can feel his smile against her skin—it’s wicked, dangerous. It promises all sorts of lovely things. Things she’s missed in all the long nights spent alone in the Playground.

“You’ll need to move fast,” she adds, still quite breathless.

His smile becomes a low chuckle that shudders through her. Jemma moans.

“Maybe,” he says, thoughtfully, “if you beg me.”

Her last coherent thought is that she hopes Markham and Ortilla take their time fetching Aldridge.

After that, thinking becomes quite impossible.


End file.
